


A Third Option

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Extra Treat, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loyalty, M/M, Organized Crime, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 11:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: Some desires are a weakness; show weakness and be destroyed. Those are the only options Viggo has ever had.And then he meets Avi.





	A Third Option

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).

> This was written for your amazing "backstory" prompt for Darkest Night, but I didn't manage to finish it before reveals. I hope you still enjoy it, but I totally understand if you're no longer interested now that the exchange is over. Feel free to refuse it - no hard feelings!
> 
> **
> 
> The bits of Russian are just what I was able to find through Googling. If any Russian speakers have suggestions for more appropriate words/phrases, please let me know!

“They're all being indicted? Even Ivanov?"

"Yes, sir."

Viggo just stares, waiting for an explanation that doesn't come. "How is this even possible?" he demands. "How many of them are there?" 

"Three, sir."

"And they're so incompetent that they all got arrested at the same time?"

"Apparently, sir."

“дерьмо́,” Viggo mutters. “Is there anyone else we can use? We can't just wait until this blows over, the Sokolov boy needs a lawyer."

A vein pulses at Kirill's temple; the only sign he gives that the answer won't please either of them. Viggo braces himself, though Kirill rarely seems outright pleased by anything.

"There is one," Kirill says. His reluctance would almost be amusing if not for the fact that without a decent lawyer, the son of one of his best brigadiers would likely end up with a major jail sentence. And while prison time is something of a rite of passage, there is no way a boy as green as that would be able to survive without cracking under the pressure.

"Well?" Viggo asks, when no further information comes. "Coyness does not suit you, Kirill. Spit it out."

If he's insulted at all, Kirill doesn't show it. "There is someone,” he answers. “He’s worked with us before, indirectly – he’s been given smaller tasks when our usual people were too busy with bigger cases."

"So he's not entirely a stranger to us?”

"No, sir." Something passes over Kirill's face, a tightness in his lips and jaw. "But he is not Russian."

Viggo’s eyebrows rise. “Then he must have some talent,” he says slowly, turning the idea over in his mind. The others would not have risked giving this man any work, no matter how minor, if they hadn't believed it would be completed successfully. Still, to trust an outsider with something like this – 

“Ivanov recommended him personally, sir. Says that he’s trustworthy as well as skilled.”

Ivanov has been with the Bratva for decades; an endorsement from him is a significant thing, and even more so if given to someone who isn't even Russian. 

“What is his name?” Viggo asks, curiosity overriding his doubt.

“Hellman, sir,” Kirill replies. “Avi Hellman.”

***

The handshake is firm and the gaze is direct, no challenge but no deference, either, and Viggo finds himself unexpectedly impressed from the start. There's no way Hellman doesn't know who he is, what he's capable of, the things he's done to get to the position he's in now. Far more powerful men than this have grovelled at Viggo’s feet but Hellman is nothing but professional, calm and polite in a way that makes it clear he sees Viggo as a potential client, nothing more.

“Mr Tarasov,” he greets. “It’s good to meet you in person.”

“Likewise, Mr Hellman.”

“Please, call me Avi.” He gestures for Viggo to sit and waits until Viggo does so before taking a seat himself. “Are you sure your assistant wouldn’t like to come in, too?”

“Kirill is not my assistant,” Viggo replies, amused by the thought of Kirill's reaction had Avi called him that to his face. “But I believe you already know that."

Avi ducks his head for a moment. When he looks up again, there's the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I don’t mean to feign ignorance. I hope I haven't caused offence?"

"What _did_ you mean, then?"

The smile widens, just a little, and Viggo resists a sudden urge to laugh. If nothing else, the man certainly has some balls.

"The law can be a little dry sometimes," Avi replies. "I see an opportunity to get my jollies, I take it."

"That's worth risking your life?"

Viggo isn’t actually offended – if anything, he's a little intrigued – but precedents still need to be set and expectations still need to be met. Showing any kind of leniency now could easily backfire later, and more importantly, they’re all bound by the rules of the Table. Everyone, even Viggo. 

"Perhaps not," Avi admits. "I'll remember that for next time."

Viggo leans back in his chair. "You are confident of a second meeting, then?"

"My work speaks for itself, Mr Tarasov. You wouldn't be here otherwise. After all," Avi adds with a shrug, "I'm not even Russian."

"I can see why Ivanov likes you," Viggo remarks, after a brief pause. "He's always appreciated a straightforward man."

"And you, Mr Tarasov?" Avi looks him in the eye and smiles again. There's a flash of something almost calculating in his eyes, a frank appraisal that sets off a faint warning bell at the back of Viggo’s mind. "What kind of man do you appreciate?"

Viggo narrows his eyes, the warning getting louder and a tingle of recognition buzzing up his spine. It’s been a long, long time since he's been faced with this, and even longer since he’s responded in kind, but that doesn’t mean he no longer remembers the signs. The careful wording, the measured looks, the sense of someone holding things back. Secret things. Sordid things.

But Avi is not some reckless, naive young man, nor does he seem like the type who’d allow baser urges to guide him. He must understand what he’s risking by being so blatant. 

Unless, of course, it was simply an accident, and his words were meant at face value and face value alone. It wouldn’t be the first time Viggo has jumped to the wrong conclusions, only finding out after the fact that he’d made a mistake. And if it was anyone other than the man sitting across from him, Viggo wouldn’t really care if the same thing happens now – on this particular issue, his vigilance is entirely justified. But Viggo needs a lawyer, and Avi is the only one Ivanov saw fit to recommend.

Viggo tilts his head to the side, openly sizing him up. Avi, for his part, merely stares back, the small smile still on his face as he waits for Viggo to answer. There's not even a hint of nervousness about him, nor any sign of uncertainty or fear. 

It must have been an accident, Viggo decides. No one could look this unconcerned if they’d really meant to imply what Viggo thought they were implying. And even if his other instincts are right and Avi is – a man with certain inclinations, then Viggo’s instincts also tell him that Avi would not let them affect his work. 

He can already see that Avi's confidence is not the braggadocio that so many others showed when they came to him offering their services. Indeed, Avi hadn't offered in the first place – he'd waited for Viggo to come to him. And not just waiting idly, if the thick file on the desk between them is any indication. It's very conspicuously labelled _SOKOLOV_, and displayed there specifically for Viggo to see.

"I appreciate men who can be relied upon to do their jobs," Viggo says eventually, pointedly glancing at the file before looking up again. "And men who accept the consequences if they do not."

Avi nods, acknowledging the compliment as well as the threat.

"Believe me," Avi replies, a certain seriousness in his eyes now that hadn't been there before, "I understand what this level of involvement will mean." He pauses for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth lifts again. "But the greatest rewards come with the greatest risks, don’t they?”

Viggo raises an eyebrow.

"My risks and rewards for hiring you, or yours for working for me?"

Avi's smile widens into a grin. "I suppose that remains to be seen, Mr Tarasov."

Viggo feels an answering smile tug at his mouth but keeps it at bay for now. As intriguing as the man is there's no getting away from the fact that he isn’t Russian – he isn't even a proper associate. But perhaps, Viggo muses, watching Avi watch him, perhaps that could be turned into an advantage for them both. Perhaps the rules could be bent a little, just this once, for a man who will never be anything more to him than a pencil-pusher in a suit.

After all, what consequences could come from a simple informality?

"To start with," he says slowly, "call me Viggo."

"Viggo," Avi repeats. It sounds awkward in his mouth, too flat and too harsh, but oddly charming in its own way. He nods to the file on the desk. "Shall we get started?"

"It appears you've made a start already," Viggo observes.

Avi shrugs. "I like to be prepared."

"An admirable trait in any man, not just lawyers." 

"On that note," Avi says, reaching into an adjacent drawer and pulling out a brand new pack of Dunhills. "Would you like a cigarette, Mr Taras– Viggo?” He holds out the box and smiles again.

Viggo eyes the pack with no small amount of surprise. This, too, Avi notices, and Viggo starts to wonder what else has been seen, what else he might have unwittingly given away. It occurs to him that Avi has the potential to be just as dangerous as any of his brigadiers and lieutenants, just as formidable as any enforcer or thug.

There's the power inherent in a well-aimed punch or a fully-loaded gun, in armies of men for whom loyalty is more valuable than their own lives. It’s a power that Viggo knows well and has used often, but he also knows that there are other, more subtle kinds of power, too. The kind built on the accumulation of information, on secrets found or told or stolen outright, and Viggo is starting to suspect that it's a power Avi can wield as effectively as Kirill can take aim with a gun.

"A happy client is a repeat client," Avi adds, when Viggo’s silence stretches out too long.

“How did you know what cigarettes I smoke?"

Avi glances at the box in his hand. Viggo is momentarily distracted by the way his eyelashes catch the light from the nearby computer monitor, the faint greenish glow making his face look strangely unreal. Avi seems amused, but Viggo gets the distinct impression that the amusement is directed inward – not at Viggo, but at Avi himself.

"It pays to be detail-oriented in this line of work," he answers. "But I suppose I've always been observant." He laughs a little, a quiet, rueful sort of chuckle that again makes Viggo want to smile back. "Sometimes to my own detriment."

"I can imagine," Viggo says. "But that is not the case today." He reaches over and takes the pack. "I appreciate the gesture."

Viggo pulls out a cigarette and starts to return the box but Avi shakes his head.

"Those are yours," he says, and something about the way he says it makes Viggo pause. Not like it’s a transaction, like he’s waiting to be given something in return, but like he's giving Viggo a gift – a gift that he does not expect to be reciprocated.

"You don't smoke? Viggo asks.

"Oh, I smoke," Avi says with a small laugh. "But I have my own." He pulls another box out from a drawer – Lucky Strikes, of all things. Viggo's distaste must show on his face because Avi laughs again as he shakes out a cigarette. "A little... pedestrian, for you?" 

"You may not be an associate but I'm quite sure you can afford to buy better cigarettes than those."

"Maybe," Avi agrees. "But I've smoked these since I was a kid." Something flickers in his eyes, a hard glint at odds with the easy smile still on his face, with the relaxed slouch in his posture. "What can I say?" he adds, looking Viggo dead in the eye. "I guess I'm just too loyal for my own good."

And at this Viggo does smile, finally, unable to hold it back any longer.

"You advertise yourself very effectively, Avi," he says. 

Avi doesn’t bother denying it. 

"Is it working?"

Viggo lights his cigarette and takes a long drag, exhaling slowly. And even through the cloud of smoke that obscures his face, Avi's eyes remain as sharp as ever.

"I must admit," Viggo says, "I do believe it is."

***

They end up meeting with each other once a week, Viggo insistent on being kept up to date with the Sokolov case and Avi happy to oblige. It’s far more complex than Viggo had anticipated but Avi has a great gift for speech, able to explain even the most esoteric points of law in a way that Viggo not only finds easy to understand, but genuinely interesting, too. It makes it easy to imagine what Avi is like in court – drawing in jurors with that charming smile, deftly weaving words and spinning stories and doing it all with such skill, no one ever notices the traps he’s laid until it’s far too late for them to escape.

It’s unsurprising, then, that Viggo can’t even remember whose idea it was to move their appointments from Avi’s office to various diners and restaurants instead. They go to a different one each time, taking turns choosing the place, and what started as half-hour meetings over coffee and pastries soon turn into leisurely lunches, and then early dinners, entire evenings sometimes whiled away. 

Viggo always comes back from those particular meetings in an unusually good mood. He very deliberately does not examine why.

***

“Are we done here?” 

Francis only pauses in his note-taking for second or two and Kirill doesn’t react at all, but Viggo still scrubs a hand over his face, regretting his loss of composure. He knows his impatience is misdirected; neither Kirill nor Francis have done anything wrong but it’s been a long day already and he’s been stuck in his office for hours.

“извиняйте,” he mutters. “Iosef has been especially… exhausting, of late.” 

“No need to explain, sir,” Francis says quickly. “In any case, we are almost done. Just two more updates.”

“About?”

“The first is the new contractor you asked us to look into, the one who’s been doing impressive work. We received his file this morning.” Francis hands over a manila folder, a small label stuck to the top edge.

“John Wick,” Viggo reads. “I thought you said he was trained at the Tarkovsky? That doesn’t sound like a very Slavic name.”

Francis shrugs. “That’s the file the Director sent us. He is definitely of the Roma Ruska, whatever his name is.”

“Very well.” Viggo puts it in his to-read pile. “And the other update?”

“The Sokolov case,” Kirill replies. “It’s been settled. Alexei’s son was released on –”

“Settled?” Viggo interrupts. “Already?” 

“Yes, sir. A few days ago.” Kirill hands over another file. “All charges have been dropped and his record scrubbed clean.” 

Viggo frowns. “How is that possible? I thought the boy had prior convictions?”

“He did,” Kirill confirms. “But it appears that Hellman is as good as Ivanov claimed.” 

“Hmm.” Viggo leans back in his chair. He hasn’t been able to meet with Avi in some time, too busy dealing with Iosef’s bullshit as well as trying to quash a small rebellion in their lower ranks. Still, he’s surprised – and somewhat offended – that Avi hadn’t called to tell him the news himself. And then another thought occurs to Viggo, one that makes his frown deepen and his mood turn even more sour. 

With the case settled, there will be no further reason to meet with Avi again. 

The words are out of Viggo’s mouth before he’s even thought them through, much less considered how they will sound to Kirill and Francis.

“Is there anything we can give him to keep him with us?”

Kirill goes still for a moment, then blinks. 

“Work, I mean work,” Viggo adds quickly. “If he’s such an effective lawyer, we should tie him up with work for us until our own men are cleared. We may need his services again.”

“A good idea, sir,” Francis says.

Kirill doesn’t reply straight away, flipping through one of the ledgers instead. 

“We have a number of open cases,” he says eventually. “More than enough to keep him occupied for some time.”

“Excellent. Send over the details and tell Avi – Mr Hellman – to contact me personally if he has any questions.”

Kirill and Francis look up in surprise. They both bury it quickly but Viggo inwardly curses. He must be more tired than he’d realised, or Iosef’s exploits must be taking a greater toll than he’d thought, or – or something. Anything. It’s late, he’s tired, he’s not as young as he used to be. He’s stressed out and overworked, that’s all. 

That must be it, Viggo tells himself, rubbing his temple as his head starts to throb. It has to be, because the alternative reason for his behaviour does not bear thinking about at all.

***

“Interesting choice of restaurant,” Viggo says, looking around and flicking ash from a cigarette.

Avi glances up from his notepad, looking first at Viggo and then, briefly, at Kirill. He seems faintly amused but is wise enough to keep it in check – right now, in public and with Kirill looming nearby, Avi understands that whatever liberties he may be granted when they’re alone are null and void out here.

“They make good cannelloni,” Avi says blandly, and resumes checking his notes again.

“Have you worked for the Italians before?”

“I’ve worked for a lot of people.” 

Viggo shakes his head. “Answered like a lawyer,” he observes.

He should push further but Viggo senses that now isn’t quite the right time. It’s been over a week since they’d last spoken face to face and despite his attempts to distance himself, Viggo still agreed to come here. It’s not often he goes to foreign territory without it ending in bullets and bloodshed, much less a good, simple meal, but Viggo knows he’s still on dangerous ground – and not just because he’s having lunch in an Italian stronghold. 

He needs to nip this in the bud, and soon. Today, in fact.

“Answered like a _good_ lawyer,” Avi corrects with a smile. He looks up again and this time there’s no mistaking the amusement in his eyes, the blue gone bright with silent laughter. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Viggo sees Kirill shift a little, a tiny redistribution of weight from one foot to the other. Kirill-speak for _just say the word, boss, and I’ll show this Мудак –_

But Viggo says nothing of the kind.

“Oh?” he asks instead. “It seems rather counterproductive, to me.”

The smile on Avi’s face vanishes at once.

“I'd hate to discover that you're a fair weather friend,” Viggo adds.

Avi’s jaw tightens. He puts his pen down, so carefully and deliberately that it’s clear he’d much rather throw it, and that’s when Viggo realises that Avi isn’t merely offended – he’s _angry_. 

“I’m not a fair weather friend,” Avi says, voice as flat now as it was amused before. “I’m a lawyer. And I do a damn good job for whoever hires me, for however long they keep me on the payroll.” He looks Viggo in the eye and despite the obviousness of his displeasure, there’s still something guarded about the look on his face, an anger that goes deeper than what he’s willing to show. “I don’t take jobs I don’t want to take, Mr Tarasov.”

“And why did you take this one, Mr Hellman?” 

Viggo takes a drag from his cigarette before leaning forward, exhaling the lungful smoke right into Avi’s face. Against his will, Viggo can't help but smile a little when Avi doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I –”

But whatever Avi was going to say is drowned out by the sound of the restaurant doors bursting open – literally. The explosion obliterates the entrance in a cloud of dust and rubble, splinters from the door flying out like tiny wooden bullets and embedding themselves in Viggo’s arms and face. Kirill has him pinned to the ground and the table up as a makeshift shield before Viggo can even comprehend what’s happening, but he’s still very aware of Avi’s hand on his chest too, keeping him in place while he pokes at his phone with his free hand, fingers shaking but moving with purpose. 

“What are you doing?” Viggo asks him over the noise, as Kirill takes a cautious look around the table to assess the situation on the other side.

“Calling in a favour.” Avi shoves the phone back into his jacket pocket. “Don’t worry, it won’t take –”

The wail of police sirens cut him off and Kirill turns to give him a look that’s made grown men burst into tears. Viggo has seen it – the hardest of hard men instantly pleading for their lives and spilling every secret they’d sworn in blood to never tell, all before Kirill has even lifted a finger. Avi, however, does nothing of the kind, simply spreading his hands in a vaguely placating gesture as the sirens get closer and closer.

“Relax,” he says. “They’re not your typical cops. Trust me on this.”

“Trust you?” Kirill repeats. If anything, the look on his face intensifies. “Вы даже не русский!” 

“Yeah,” Avi says, after a pause. “I’m guessing I don’t really need a translation for that one.”

“He merely said that you aren’t Russian,” Viggo says. Avi looks surprised and it takes a moment for Viggo to understand that it’s not Kirill’s lack of an insult that Avi did not expect, but that Viggo would bother to translate for him at all. 

“Well,” Avi replies, “he’s not wrong.”

Kirill takes another look over the edge of the table, gun at the ready. Viggo isn’t especially worried – he has every confidence that Kirill can hold off whoever it is until reinforcements arrive – but he still breathes a little easier when Kirill crouches back down and says that their would-be attackers appear to have fled. 

“Perhaps the sirens scared them off,” he adds, giving Avi a curt nod. Avi seems startled by the acknowledgement but Viggo isn’t surprised – Kirill has never been a petty man. He’s always valued skill above all else, and is as quick to give credit where credit is due as he is to deal out vengeance and retribution.

“I wasn’t counting on just the sirens,” Avi says, when Kirill doesn’t explain himself any further. “I know these cops, they –” He cuts himself off when his phone buzzes, and after tapping out a brief reply, he looks up and grins. 

“Good news?” Viggo asks.

“They’ve been apprehended.” Avi cuts Kirill a glance before adding, “They’re out the back, if you want to… you know.” When Kirill raises an eyebrow, Avi just shrugs. “You seem like the kind of guy who could get answers in five minutes that the police couldn’t get in five hours. And I can guarantee that these cops will give you all the time you need.”

Kirill still looks wary but Viggo gestures to the door. “Go,” he says. “Find out what you can.”

“Yes, sir.” Kiril’s reply is immediate but he gives Avi a long, hard stare before he leaves. 

“You know, if you’re wrong,” Viggo says conversationally, after Kirill disappears out the door, “he’ll kill them all and then he’ll come back here and kill you, too.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. But he won’t have to.” 

Viggo takes in the confident slant of his mouth, the absolute lack of concern in his eyes.

“I take it that it’s not just the Italians you’ve worked with, then?” 

Avi shrugs again. “Like I said, I’ve worked with a _lot_ of people.” 

Then he reaches into his jacket pocket and fishes out a half-crushed box of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes, of course. A single, crooked stick is all that's left inside it. 

“Here,” he says, holding it out. 

Viggo frowns down at the cigarette. Something about it doesn’t seem quite right – 

“It’s a Dunhill,” he starts to say, surprised, but Avi interrupts him.

“It’s yours,” he corrects, echoing what he’d said the day they first met. The day he’d offered Viggo a brand new box, given as a gift with no expectation of anything more. Viggo studies Avi’s face now, scratched up and bleeding a little from stray splinters of wood and shards of shattered crockery. A faint smile is on his lips but there’s a seriousness in his eyes too, an indication that there’s a deeper meaning to this gesture that Viggo is yet to understand. 

“Consider it a peace offering,” Avi adds. He seems to hesitate, and his voice goes quiet. “I understand what you were doing, earlier.”

Somehow, Viggo manages not to react. 

“You don’t want it?” he asks. He’s looking at the cigarette as he says it, but the question is deliberately vague and he knows that Avi will understand this, too. 

“Oh, I want something, all right,” Avi replies with a small, strained laugh. “I mean, nothing like almost getting blown up to make a craving go through the roof, right?” He takes a breath and nods to the cigarette. “But let’s call it an exercise in self-restraint. Besides, it’s not even a Lucky.”

He looks up, then, and their eyes meet – just briefly, just long enough for Viggo to get a sense of just how deep Avi's understanding goes. 

“You are a disciplined man, Avi Hellman,” Viggo murmurs, taking the cigarette from his hand, “to deny yourself things that tempt you so.”

“Not disciplined,” Avi says. “Just loyal.” 

Viggo already has the cigarette between his lips when he remembers that Kirill has his lighter. 

“Ah, goddamnit –” he mutters, but then he hears the telltale hiss of a flame coming to life beside him, and slowly turns his head. 

“Loyal and prepared for everything,” Avi adds. He leans a little closer, one hand protecting the flame, and their eyes meet again as Viggo sucks a little on the filter to ignite the end of the cigarette. 

He sits back as he pulls it out of his mouth, turning away to exhale the cloud of smoke. 

“Your self-restraint is admirable,” Viggo says, “but in this case, unnecessary.” The words spill out despite his better judgement, despite knowing that this cannot possibly be anything other than a very, very bad idea. He holds the cigarette out in silent offer. “And I am, on occasion, willing to encourage indulgence.”

Avi stares at the cigarette for several long seconds before he finally takes it. And even then, he only allows himself one short, brief drag.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Avi replies, and hands it back.

Viggo nods, both in anticipation and in pre-emptive regret. “Yes,” he says. “As will I.”

***

By tacit agreement, they meet only in private after that, usually in Avi’s office but occasionally in Viggo’s, too. Avi is wholly professional, his reports succinct and his work efficient, and if their conversations are a little more loaded than they were before, no one else has to know about it.

Nonetheless, he still takes Kirill with him most of the time, as insurance against things going too far. Today, however, Viggo is alone. And a good thing, too, considering what he’s decided to do.

“He’s helping my son with something,” Viggo says, when Avi remarks on Kirill’s absence. “Iosef is… enthusiastic, but somewhat impulsive.”

“You need any help on the legal front with that?” Avi asks, looking up from where he’d been digging through a drawer. “I can keep it quiet, whatever it is –” 

He falls silent when Viggo suddenly laughs. 

“Do you ever stop selling yourself, Avi?” 

Viggo watches with interest as a succession of thoughts play out over Avi’s face: surprise, wariness, hesitation. And then, very briefly, there is something else – an intense flash of heat that’s gone before Viggo can react to it. Another easy grin takes its place instead, as well as a rueful shrug of the shoulders.

“I’m an independent contractor, Viggo. The hustle’s part of the job.” 

Avi rifles through the drawer again. A short while later, he finds what he’d been looking for – an open box of Dunhills. Viggo knows without checking that there’s exactly four cigarettes left inside, because that’s how many there were when he’d left, the last time he’d been here. He also knows that not only would Avi never take any himself, but that he’d never offer them to anyone else, either. Indeed, Viggo suspects that there are entire cartons of Dunhills stashed throughout his office, and all of them are for Viggo alone. 

_They’re yours_, Avi had said, during their very first meeting, and over the past few months Viggo has learned that Avi’s word is as solid and true as the gold coins he accepts as payment.

Viggo takes one of the cigarettes and rolls it between his fingers. He’s made his decision already and now is the time.

“What if you weren’t, anymore?” Viggo asks.

“What if I wasn’t what?” 

“An independent contractor," Viggo says. “What if you no longer have to hustle?”

Avi doesn't answer. He searches Viggo’s eyes and Viggo lets him; they both know that this is just as much a request as it is an offer. Independence means a hustle but it also means freedom, and the security that comes with permanence is not without a price. 

“I’m not Russian,” Avi says, eventually. And Viggo has to smile, because really – Avi could not have given a more perfect answer. Not a no, not a yes, but a simple statement of fact that nonetheless encapsulates everything he needs to say.

“No,” Viggo agrees. “You are not.” He lights the cigarette and watches Avi frown through the tendrils of smoke. 

“I’ll never be one of you,” he says. “Not really. No matter what I do.”

Viggo nods. “True,” he agrees. “But you don’t have to be. Not for what I want you to do.” 

Avi inhales sharply. “And that is?”

Viggo takes another drag from his cigarette. A long one, inhaling deeply, taking the time to savor the taste of tobacco on his tongue, to feel the burn of the smoke in his lungs. Avi has gone so still he barely seems to be breathing.

“No more than what you’ve been doing already,” Viggo answers. Avi’s frown deepens but he stays silent, and after another deep drag, Viggo suddenly stands. “But take your time, if you feel you need to.” He holds out a hand and Avi takes it before going still again, blinking down at their interlaced fingers, at their palms pressed flush together. “It is not a decision to be made lightly.”

Avi lifts his head, but doesn’t let go of Viggo’s hand.

“You’re really offering me this?” 

Viggo tightens his grip and squeezes, just once. It’s the only answer he gives, but not everything requires words.

It takes some time, but eventually, Avi squeezes back. 

***

Forty minutes, Viggo thinks, checking his watch again and stubbing out yet another cigarette. Five would be acceptable and ten understandable, given what New York City traffic is like. Even fifteen could be forgiven, if the excuse is reasonable enough. But this – Avi over half an hour late for a scheduled meeting, with no call or message and not answering his phone – 

Viggo’s irritation starts giving way to something else entirely.

They’d both been more cautious since the incident at the restaurant, Viggo posting guards at Avi’s office building and even sending Kirill there earlier, to personally escort Avi to their meeting here. The fact that there’s been no word from either of them is… not a good sign. 

Viggo checks his watch again. The thought of Kirill being taken by surprise or overpowered by the idiots who’d tried to ambush them at the restaurant is almost laughable, an idea so absurd that it didn’t even cross Viggo’s mind until they were already twenty minutes late. And now, forty minutes gone –

“Francis,” he says, into the intercom built into the desk.

“Yes, sir?” 

“Avi is late. Kirill is with him.”

A brief pause.

“Understood, sir.” Another pause, longer this time. “Will you be accompanying us?” 

Viggo’s answer is immediate. “Yes, I will.”

“Understood,” Francis repeats. There’s no surprise in his voice but Viggo can imagine the look on his face; the fact that he’d asked the question at all is significant in and of itself. “We’ll leave in ten minutes, sir.” 

***

It doesn’t take long to find them.

Kirill is no fool and neither is Avi, and they’d both managed to leave behind enough clues that Francis has little trouble following. The end of the proverbial trail of breadcrumbs is an old abandoned warehouse – and of course it is, Viggo thinks, contempt momentarily overriding his concern. The predictability just adds insult to injury. 

Francis is equally efficient when it comes to taking their would-be rivals out, a brief volley of well-aimed shots and the calculated risk of a frontal assault paying off within fifteen minutes of finding them. Viggo gives Francis enough coin to make a dinner reservation for the dozen or so people the strike team had taken out – plus a little extra in recognition of the work he’d done himself – before he goes anywhere near the area where Kirill and Avi were being held.

It’s nothing more than a small, makeshift room, separated from the rest of the cavernous space by heavy plastic sheeting strung up from the rafters. Fairly standard, really, but as soon as Viggo pushes through the plastic curtain the scent of blood assaults him, hanging thick and heavy in the stale, warm air – so thick he can practically taste it, and he has to make a conscious effort not to gag on the smell.

Kirill and Avi are both still bound to high-backed chairs, rough-looking rope wrapped tight around their arms and legs. Bruises mottle both their faces and one of Kirill’s eyes is swollen almost completely shut, but really, Viggo’s seen him look a lot worse. He knows that Kirill is just as capable of taking hits as he is at doling them out and he’s not overly concerned about him.

Avi, however – 

His lower lip is split open and semi-dried blood forms gory trails down his temples and chin and the back of his neck, the collar of his shirt gone dark and stiff with it. A head injury, no doubt. Brighter, fresher splashes of blood are streaked across Avi’s chest and rolled-up sleeves, and as Viggo comes closer he sees the circles of puckered, reddened skin on his forearms, the edges starting to crust and weep – cigarette burns, Viggo realises, and feels a wave of rage crash over him that’s so strong, it surprises him. But it’s nothing compared to what he feels when he takes a closer look at Avi’s other injuries, when he sees why there’s so much blood on his face and on the floor under his chair.

Viggo recognises these wounds, knows them all intimately, because they’re wounds he’s inflicted himself – many times, on scores and scores of people over the course of many, many years. People whose bodies he climbed over on his way up the food chain, people who had information he needed but who hadn’t wanted to talk. 

Not at first, anyway.

Viggo reaches out and touches Avi’s blood-streaked face. Avi says nothing, neither flinching nor pulling away – just watching in silence as Viggo carefully runs a thumb over his swollen, split lip, before gently pulling his mouth open. Only one tooth is missing and his tongue is intact, no damage to it at all. Viggo has to take a breath, intensely relieved. Further proof that these people are amateurs, he thinks, and lets his hand fall away from Avi’s jaw. 

“Do you think you have broken bones?” Viggo asks, crouching down to check the stab wounds on his thighs.

“Don’t think so,” Avi manages to say. 

His voice is hoarse and Viggo’s fingers twitch against the fabric, soaked through and still sticky with blood. The cuts aren’t clean, messy and gaping in a way that Viggo is very, very familiar with – blades with serrated edges, plunged in deep and then twisted, slowly, until the edges of the wound ripped apart. 

Maximum pain for minimum effort, he thinks, and as long as the femoral artery is avoided, there would be no risk of death. Torture that could last for hours.

“Neither of us have broken bones, sir.” It’s the first time Kirill has spoken and Viggo goes still, suddenly, unsure of what he’s perhaps given away. “But when you untie him – his fingers, sir –”

Viggo only has a gun on him, nothing that can cut through the rope, but he immediately rounds the chair to see what Kirill is talking about. At first glance, Avi’s hands look fine – the knuckles aren’t crooked, the skin isn’t bruised. But then he sees the drops of blood on the very tips of Avi’s fingers, and when Viggo very, very gently takes hold of his bound hands to get a better look, he finally understands what Kirill means.

There are dark lines running down four of Avi’s fingernails – two fingers on each hand, one line down each nail. Lines that came from needles, Viggo realises, as Avi grabs at his hands, preventing Viggo from letting him go. Needles that were pushed between fingernail and flesh and left there for who knows how long. 

Viggo’s jaw tightens and he swallows another surge of black, violent rage. Perhaps these people aren’t as incompetent as he thought they were.

“Sir?” The plastic curtain is pushed aside and Francis steps through it, the sight of his hulking frame oddly reassuring. His eyes widen a little at what he sees, but one look from Kirill immediately makes him straighten up and school his face into neutrality. “The dinner reservation is complete, sir, and we have intel on who may have ordered the hit. Charlie’s team is ready to clean up in here, too, if you’re…” He falters for a moment, glancing uncertainly at Kirill. “If you’re ready to leave, sir.”

Viggo nods. “Get me something to cut these ropes and then we can go. And arrange for Dr Orlov to be ready when we return.”

It’s not until Francis has turned around and left that Viggo realises what gave Francis pause – he’s still holding Avi’s hands, and Avi is still holding his. 

***

Avi doesn’t protest when Dr Orlov takes one look at him and insists on immediate treatment. He does, however, glance at Viggo, an unreadable expression on his face that makes the back of Viggo’s neck prickle and something in his stomach twist. Viggo almost looks away but instead stares right back, until it’s Avi who breaks eye contact, lowering his head as though deep in thought. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with them?” Viggo asks, when he and Kirill get settled in his office. “I didn't arrange a doctor just for Avi’s benefit.” He lights a cigarette and offers the box, but Kirill shakes his head.

“No, thank you, sir,” he says, answering both questions. “This is enough,” he adds, gesturing to the ice pack he has pressed against his swollen eye.

Viggo frowns. “That’s all they did to you?” 

“A few punches, yes.” 

Kirill stops there, and Viggo can practically see the gears turning in his head as he composes a more detailed response. As good as Kirill is with all things physical – fists and feet and aim with a gun – Viggo knows that his true skill lies in something far less tangible. It’s a lesson Viggo learned very early on – that men as reticent as Kirill all tend to be cut from the same cloth, as keen of eye as they are sparse of words. Kirill, the concierge at The Contintental, the contractor from the Tarkovsky Theatre – they are all men of the same ilk, and Viggo knows they are all equally dangerous, too. So he says nothing now, and simply waits for Kirill to elaborate. 

“It was quickly obvious,” Kirill says at length, “that he and I worked for you in different capacities.”

“Different capacities,” Viggo repeats slowly. “You mean it was obvious that you could defend yourself and Avi could not.”

Kirill nods. “They knew they’d be wasting their efforts on me. That no matter what they did, I would not betray you. But Mr Hellman…” Kirill trails off. “Just a lawyer, not even Russian... what loyalty could he possibly have to you?”

Viggo flicks ash from his cigarette, frown deepening. What loyalty, indeed?

“But they underestimated him,” Kirill continues. “As did I.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. 

“What?” Viggo demands. “What did Avi tell them?”

“That’s just it, sir.” Kirill looks him in the eye and shakes his head again. “Nothing. He told them absolutely nothing.”

Viggo stares. Twisted knives, burning skin, needles under fingernails – these are not pranks or children’s games; these are actual, genuine forms of torture. Brutal, _effective_ torture, of a kind that Viggo has seen break down men who had far more to lose than Avi did. Pain carefully inflicted, in the most precise, exquisite ways, until even oaths they’d sworn in blood were obliterated by the sound of their own screaming. 

And yet, Avi – 

“Nothing?” Viggo repeats.

“Nothing,” Kirill confirms. “He may prove to be… a valuable asset, sir.” 

Viggo raises his eyebrows. “Effusive praise, coming from you.”

“His conduct was admirable,” Kirills says, shrugging a little. “He may never be one of us but after what I saw today, I don’t doubt that he’d die like one of us, if he had to.”

Viggo stubs out his cigarette, most of it still unsmoked. It was from the last box that Avi had given him, the day he’d offered him a permanent place. An offer – and an acceptance – that Viggo had yet to make official, or even announce to anyone else. Only the two of them knew about it and if Avi had broken under the torture, only the two of them would understand what kind of betrayal it would have been.

But Avi hadn’t broken anything. Not his will under excruciating pain, and not the unspoken vow he made when he squeezed Viggo’s hand. 

What loyalty, indeed.

“I do believe you are right, Kirill,” Viggo says slowly. “It deserves some kind of recognition, don’t you think? I owe him a drink at my bar, at the very least.”

Kirill nods. “I’ll pass along the invitation.”

Viggo shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’ll make it myself.”

***

Three days later, Avi is in Viggo's apartment for the very first time, sitting at the bar and looking around with open curiosity. 

“Nice place,” he says. 

His movements are still unnatural, stiff with the pain of unhealed wounds, and unlike Kirill or Francis or Iosef, or any number of the men Viggo works with, he makes no attempt to hide the discomfort he’s in. Avi must already know that he will not be seen as weak, that his actions have already proven something that macho posturing could not.

“This life is not without its rewards,” Viggo replies.

He pulls two tumblers from under the bar and selects a bottle from the fridge. Vodka, of course, ice cold and imported from Russia. Not the swill found in American liquor stores, but the real deal – the kind so pure and smooth it could slowly poison your blood without you even realising it. 

He pours them both a generous shot and pushes the other glass across the counter. Avi takes it with a quiet thank you but doesn’t yet drink. Not a Russian, Viggo thinks, but not completely ignorant, either. 

“Kirill told me what happened,” he says, as he catalogues the bruises on Avi’s face, starting to turn from blue and black to a sickly, yellowish-brown. “He was quite impressed.”

Avi raises his eyebrows and grins. “I should note that for posterity,” he remarks. “It’s unlikely that’ll ever happen again.” 

“Kirill being impressed with you, or you being tortured?”

The grin disappears and Avi’s fingers tighten around the tumbler in his hands. The marks under his nails are still visible, reddish lines from tip to cuticle, lines that get darker the tighter his grip becomes. 

“Both,” Avi says. He looks up and meets Viggo’s gaze, eyes as hard and cold as the vodka still in their glasses. “I mean, Kirill knows what I’m capable of now. And so do you.”

Viggo studies him for a moment. “I certainly do,” he agrees. 

He drinks the shot and watches Avi follow suit, head tilting back and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. There are bruises on his neck too, bruises and scratches, and Viggo licks his lips as he puts the glass down, still staring at the marks that are starkly visible against the pale skin of Avi’s throat.

Salt, Viggo thinks. They’d taste of salt and iron, and maybe antiseptic, too; they’d feel warm and tender beneath his hands. 

He lifts his gaze. Avi is watching him too, the same unreadable expression on his face as when Dr Orlov had led him away. Viggo pours out another two shots, then briefly turns away to get the cigarettes he’d asked Francis to buy earlier that day. He can still feel Avi’s eyes on him, and those same eyes widen a little when he turns around again and holds out not just an unopened box, but a brand new carton.

“Luckies,” Avi murmurs. 

“You keep Dunhills at your office,” Viggo says with a shrug. “One good turn, yes?”

“You’re at my office a lot, though,” Avi points out, as Viggo opens the carton and takes out a box before storing the rest of it away. “I’ve never even been here before.”

Viggo shakes out a cigarette. “I didn’t know what you were capable of, before.” He holds his hand out, the cigarette lying on his open palm. Avi’s fingers brush his skin when he takes it, as deliberate a move as Viggo’s choice not to simply hand over the box. 

Avi pushes the cigarette between his lips and starts patting his pockets, looking for his lighter. 

“Allow me,” Viggo says. Avi abruptly goes still. He watches Viggo flip a Zippo open, then stares at the flame when it flickers to life. Viggo leans over the counter until it meets the end of the cigarette, Avi’s mouth only a few inches away from his hand. “As I said,” Viggo adds, when Avi glances up, into his eyes, the flame reflected in his dilated pupils, “one good turn –”

“Deserves another,” Avi finishes, pulling back when the cigarette is lit and he’s taken a quick drag. 

“Indeed.” 

Viggo watches Avi take another puff. His split lip is still swollen, dark and red and plump as it closes around the filter, and then Avi’s tongue sweeps across it, leaving a damp trail that catches the lamplight at the edge of the bar. When Viggo looks up again, there’s something very clear in Avi’s eyes – the watchful sharpness that Viggo saw the day they first met, the thing that Viggo immediately recognised and has since tried, repeatedly, to ignore. 

He doesn’t try to ignore it now.

“Do you know why I offered you a place here?” Viggo asks. He lights a cigarette of his own, turning his head as he exhales but keeping his gaze fixed on Avi’s face. “Even though you aren’t Russian?”

“I’m good at what I do,” Avi replies. 

“There is that, yes,” Viggo agrees. “But your skills are not unique. All it takes is practice and the will to improve.” He takes another drag and licks his lips. “I offered you a place because I’ve learned, over the years, that there are some things that run deeper than blood. That genetics don’t guarantee fealty, and in the end, one’s birthplace is nothing more than a dot on a map. What truly matters,” Viggo adds, voice going quiet, “is not the blood that flows in your veins, Avi. What matters is the blood you’re willing to spill, and the blood you’re prepared to lose. And you’ve shown us, now, that you understand this, too.” 

Viggo drinks the second shot of vodka. Avi stares for a moment before he does the same, and as soon as he puts the tumbler back down, Viggo pours them another round. He slowly manoeuvers the glass between Avi’s fingers, his own fingertips brushing over Avi’s knuckles as he goes, until it’s nestled in the space between Avi’s forefinger and thumb. 

Avi’s hands are like pale spiders against the dark marble of the countertop, soft and smooth and relatively unmarked. The hands of a man who sits at desks and types at keyboards; the kind of man who doesn’t need to use a fist to make a point. 

Viggo’s hands, however, are covered in scars. Scars and tattoos of actual spiders, because there had been a time when his fists were the only power he had at his disposal, the only way to ensure that he would not be ignored. 

“It occurs to me,” Viggo says, absently rubbing his knuckles and rounding the bench until they’re side by side, “that you understand this truth better than some of us who actually are Russian.” Avi frowns a little and lifts the cigarette to his lips, but says nothing. “Take my son, for example,” Viggo adds. “Iosef. He was born to this and yet, there are some things about this life he will never understand.”

“Such as?” 

Viggo glances over. Avi’s eyes are guarded as he watches Viggo continue to run his thumb across his knuckles, back and forth, over and over again. 

“Iosef will probably never go through what you just did,” Viggo replies, leaning back against the counter. “He’s been born to privilege; he's too well guarded. So he may never know what it’s like to be faced with the choice of keeping silent or keeping an eye, or a finger, or your very life. He’ll never know what it means to be willing to give up everything – everything except your loyalty. It’s one thing to be born to this life, Avi, and one thing to choose it. And it’s another thing entirely to choose to stay.” 

They lapse into a silence that’s not quite comfortable, too many things still unspoken between them, if not entirely unacknowledged.

“I gave you my answer,” Avi says eventually, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. “In my office, before I was – before all of this happened. And my answer hasn’t changed.”

“A non-verbal answer,” Viggo points out. “One that no one else even knows about yet.”

“Actions can speak louder than words.” Avi cuts Viggo a glance and smiles a little. “And give you plausible deniability.”

Viggo shakes his head.

“A lawyer to the end,” he murmurs. “But you’re right – I should make it official.” Viggo lifts his glass. “Let this not just be a toast to thank you for your loyalty, Avi Hellman, but a toast that welcomes you to the fold – if not quite the Family.” 

The answering grin spreads across Avi’s face like a gunshot, fast and deadly and, Viggo is sure now, very deliberately aimed. Viggo stares openly as they tap their glasses together before they down the shots in one swallow, the smile still on Avi’s face when he puts the tumbler back down. 

Avi had come from his apartment, not his office, but he’s still wearing a suit – fine grey wool that emphasises the line of his shoulders and drapes perfectly over his lean frame. He’s not built like a tank like Francis is, nor is he an unyielding wall like Kirill, and he certainly isn’t anything like the pretty, soft-limbed young men that Viggo sometimes, in moments of need, indulges himself with. Avi simply looks like an average, typical man – but Avi is not average, or typical, and Viggo finally admits to himself that Avi has never, in truth, seemed that way to him. 

Viggo knows now that there’s a fierce and formidable intelligence behind those watchful eyes; now he has irrefutable proof that there’s steel hiding behind that smiling mouth. And now, Viggo can no longer deny that beyond the sharp glances, the lingering looks, the loaded questions and their carefully-phrased answers, there is something even more dangerous – something Viggo has spent a lifetime consciously avoiding: a desire that goes deeper than lust. A desire that, he’s sure, is very much reciprocated.

But mutual recognition or not, they both know that this is a very, very bad idea. And yet Avi still turns and looks up at Viggo from under his eyelashes, and Viggo still lowers his gaze to Avi’s mouth. And the lingering burn of the alcohol is an easy excuse for the flush on their faces when Viggo suddenly moves, leaning into Avi’s unresisting body as he reaches across the counter to grab the box of Lucky Strikes again. 

He pulls back before he shakes out a cigarette and holds it in the narrow space between them. They’re not touching anymore, not quite, but they’re still close enough that Viggo can feel Avi’s breath against his face, can still sense the tension in Avi’s body as he carefully holds himself still. Crowded against the bar and still suffering from multiple injuries, it can’t be comfortable for him, but he makes no attempt to move away. He glances at the cigarette in Viggo’s hand.

“Are you offering,” Avi asks, “or taking?” 

“I don’t smoke Lucky Strikes. You know that.”

“So it’s an offer?” 

Viggo stares at him, right into his eyes, and thinks: _stop_. He thinks of his brother, of his son, of his son’s mother. Of things he’s done, things he still does, things he’s given up – given up willingly, because like Iosef, he and his brother had been born to this; there is no distinction between family and Family to them because they’ve never had any other choice. 

Viggo is a disciplined man when he has to be but he’s not made of stone. His brother has never said a word – some things could be consciously ignored if not outright tolerated, as long as those things did not get in the way of the Family’s interests. But the occasional visit to discreet professionals is one thing, and this – Avi – is another.

He should step back. He should walk away. He should stop – 

And then Avi shifts beneath him, just the barest movement of his hips as he tries to find a more comfortable position, and Viggo feels an unmistakable heat and hardness pressed against his thigh. 

Avi freezes. He swallows thickly and when Viggo doesn’t back away or say a word, a new expression fills Avi’s eyes – one that Viggo has never seen in them before. 

Fear. 

“Viggo,” he starts. “Mr Tarasov. I –”

“Did Dr Orlov give you something for the pain?”

Avi blinks rapidly, once, twice, thrice. It seems to take several seconds for the question to sink in; his pupils still dilated, his eyes glazed. And then he blinks again, slowly, and takes a deep, deep breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “He gave me Oxy.” 

Viggo nods. “I see.” He slowly puts the cigarette down on the counter. “I’m not offering, Avi, nor am I taking.” He leans in closer, just a little, and hears Avi’s breath hitch in his chest, sees his lips part in anticipation. “You’ve performed a valuable service for us. Not just a few days ago, but over the past few months. The Sokolov boy, all the others you’ve helped.” Viggo leans down further, until he hears the faintest, wordless plea escape Avi’s throat. “All I’m doing, Avi, is giving you a small reward.”

And then he presses himself right against Avi, hips and stomach and chest, and Avi inhales sharply, surprised and unprepared. 

“Not that small,” he says distractedly. Viggo has to smile, even though there’s still a trace of fear in Avi’s eyes. “Can I –” Avi starts, cautious fingers skimming over Viggo’s waist.

“No.” Avi’s hands go still at once. “Not yet.” Viggo lowers his head, until his lips are a hair’s breadth away from brushing Avi’s mouth. “I’m giving you a gift, Avi. A thank you. It’s rude to not even find out what it is before you move on to something else.” He runs one hand down Avi’s torso, following the line of buttons and stopping just above the waistband of his slacks. “You wouldn’t want to be rude, would you?”

“N-no,” Avi says, stammering a little. “But I’ve – all this time, I wanted to –”

Viggo has never heard him be anything less than perfectly articulate before and the slight loss of control makes Viggo suddenly aware of his own neglected erection. Just the idea of it, of Avi thinking of him like this during all their meetings and talks and visits – 

“You’ve been… frustrated?” Viggo asks, nosing along Avi’s bruised neck, fingers trailing up and down his side.

“Yes,” Avi admits, voice already a little breathless. “I’ve –” He stops suddenly, cutting himself off.

Viggo lifts his head and sees Avi’s face flush a deeper shade of pink. “Tell me.”

Avi closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. When he opens them again, they’re filled with such an intense, focused heat that Viggo has to take a breath himself.

“Don’t worry,” Avi says quietly. “I took care of it.” He licks his lips. “Repeatedly.”

The images come to Viggo with embarrassing speed, one after another in rapid succession: Avi in his office, sitting at his desk, fly open and legs spread wide. Avi in the shower, water cascading down his back, one hand braced against the wall and the other slowly, languidly touching himself. Avi lying in bed, thrusting hard into his own fist, eyes shut tight as he moans Viggo’s name –

“_Блять_,” Viggo groans. His fingers twitch against Avi’s shirt, the urge to rip it off and just shove Avi face-first against the counter suddenly overwhelming. He tries to remember that Avi is still badly injured, that he doesn’t even know the extent of what he'd gone through – but then Avi makes another small noise and bucks his hips and the next thing Viggo knows, his hands are all but tearing at Avi's clothes.

“Yes,” Avi gasps, when Viggo’s fingers wrap around him. “_Yes_, fuck, please –”

Viggo tightens his fist and starts stroking roughly and Avi closes his eyes, gripping the counter behind him so tightly that his knuckles go white. His head tips forward and when Viggo presses their foreheads together, Avi's eyes flicker open again in surprise. They're dark with lust now, lust and clear, open hunger, and his short panting breaths are hot against Viggo’s face as Viggo strokes faster and faster. Precome coats his palm and makes the slide that much smoother and Avi’s face twists a little, almost like he's in pain.

“Viggo,” he whispers. “Viggo, _please_ –”

His voice is hoarse, deeper than Viggo has ever heard it, and the sound of it forming his name is like a direct line to Viggo’s aching cock. Their foreheads and the hand on Avi’s dick are the only points of contact between them, Viggo deliberately holding himself just beyond reach, and the sense of being so close and yet not close enough is maddening.

“What,” Viggo asks roughly, slowing his hand down until Avi makes a desperate, pleading sound. “What do you want, Avi?”

There’s no reply but Avi’s hips start moving again, all but fucking into Viggo’s tight, hot fist. 

“Answer me,” Viggo insists. He circles the head of Avi's cock with his thumb and Avi shudders hard against the bar.

“_Christ_,” Avi gasps. “You're so – I need –” 

There’s so little space between their mouths that the words barely exist before Viggo swallows them down, just breathes them in like the smoke from one of the countless cigarettes Avi has given him over the past few months. He’s the one who asked the question but he already knows the answer, and he also knows that it’s one neither of them can afford to say out loud.

But Avi won’t – or can’t – stop, the words spilling from his lips in an endless, filthy torrent, every _God_ and _fuck_ and _please-faster-more _steadily wearing away at what’s left of Viggo’s self-control.

It’s nothing Viggo hasn’t heard before, from prettier mouths and prettier faces, but the roughness of Avi’s voice his ear, the flush on Avi’s skin, the heat and weight of Avi’s cock in his hand – all of that is new, and even through the haze of lust Viggo is self-aware enough to know that no random callboy, no matter how pretty or skilled or eager they were, would make him feel the way he’s feeling right now: painfully hard and seconds away from coming – in his pants, untouched, like some goddamn virgin teenager. 

And then Viggo starts to lift his head, trying to put some more space between them, and Avi moves so suddenly that Viggo doesn’t even realise what’s happening until Avi’s hands are in his hair and his tongue is in his mouth. And now the words don’t even have to exist, now Viggo doesn’t have to snatch them out of the air and hoard them like a thief, because now they’re moaned right into Viggo’s throat, forced past his teeth and pressed into his tongue, secrets freely given and somehow, understood. 

But this isn’t something Viggo is used to, it's something he very rarely allows, and it’s been so long since he’s felt the scratch of another man’s stubble against his face that he doesn’t even notice Avi’s hands are moving – not until strong fingers curl around him and start to move.

“_Блять,_” Viggo chokes, breaking the kiss and panting harshly against Avi’s neck. The are still bruises there, dark and tender and finger-shaped, and Viggo gives into temptation and licks over them, again and again, tasting and sucking and scraping his teeth over each one, reclaiming them as his own. Avi’s grip tightens in response and Viggo presses in closer, until their cocks line up and their fingers tangle and they start stroking as one. 

“Oh, _Jesus_,” Avi moans brokenly, his other hand gripping the back of Viggo’s neck. “Fuck, _fuck_, I’m –”

Viggo lifts his head and stares down at him. Avi’s face is flushed and sweaty, eyes heavy-lidded, and his _mouth_ – 

Viggo licks his lips and tastes blood on his tongue. Avi’s blood, from where his lip has split open again.

“Don’t,” Avi begs, when Viggo slows his hand again, distracted by the bright red slash of Avi’s mouth. “_Please_, Viggo – please don’t stop –”

Viggo doesn’t reply. Instead, he runs his free hand over Avi’s cheek before he presses his fingers, hard, against his swollen lip, and Avi’s eyes widen, going bright with sudden pain. Viggo tightens his fist and speeds up his hand and when Avi cries out in surprise, Viggo pushes his fingers deep into Avi’s mouth, starts sliding them in and out in time with his strokes and rubbing roughly against the split, until the blood starts flowing and Avi starts sucking and shaking and the _sounds_ he makes – moans that are equal parts pain and pleasure, gasps that might be asking for more or asking him to stop –

Viggo strokes faster and squeezes tighter and Avi comes with a choked-off shout, spilling out thick and hot over their joined hands. He looks Viggo in the eye as he shamelessly sucks on Viggo’s bloody fingers, head moving in such a practiced, deliberate way that Viggo can practically feel Avi’s mouth on his cock already, that wet heat and tight throat, that tongue licking him up and down. Avi’s come on their hands adds a new slickness that makes the slide of their fists even sweeter, and all it takes is a few more rough strokes before Viggo follows him over the edge too. 

He's still catching his breath when he slowly withdraws his fingers, wet and still streaked with blood. For an interminable length of time they just stand there, staring at each other and panting against each other’s open mouths. Viggo would barely even have to move to capture Avi's lips again, to taste Avi's blood on his tongue again. All he has to do is –

Avi closes his eyes. He's still bent back against the counter at an awkward angle; it would be uncomfortable even if he wasn’t injured. But he makes no move to get out from under Viggo’s weight pressing into him, and it's this – that Avi isn't moving despite the fact that he must be in pain, that Avi knows he has no choice but to wait for Viggo to dictate what happens next – that makes Viggo finally, finally step away. 

Viggo makes his way to the other side of the bar. He pauses there for a moment, hands braced against the counter and head bowed as he forces himself to think things through. He knows Avi is watching him but he doesn’t look up, just finds a couple of tea towels and tosses one on the counter before using the other to clean himself up. It’s only when he’s sure that his voice will be steady and his expression will be neutral that he glances over, and when he does, he sees that Avi has cleaned up, too – not just the mess on his hands and between his legs, but the look on his face as well. His eyes are a solid blank wall and Viggo can read nothing of the expression in them, nothing at all.

“I’ve organised for someone to take you home,” he says, when he can no longer stand the silence.

“I can get a cab –”

“We’ve yet to find Popov,” Viggo interrupts. Something flashes in Avi’s eyes, there and gone before Viggo can catch it. “Another attack is still possible.”

“Popov?” Avi asks. “Evgeny Popov? He ordered the kidnapping?”

“Yes.” Viggo watches something hard form in Avi’s eyes, hard and very, very cold. “You know him?”

“I do, yeah.”

“Then you understand my caution. He’s a fool, but even fools can be dangerous. Francis will take you home. And will maintain a watch over your apartment until we’ve taken care of it.”

Avi stares at him for a moment. “Francis?” he asks. 

Even the greenest of rookies can drive a car; even the lowest of associates can guard a door. Avi knows this. He also knows that Francis is a brigadier, and a senior one at that – one on par with Kirill. 

Viggo stares back. “Francis,” he confirms.

Avi sucks in a breath. “Thank you,” he says, eventually. “I – ” He stops suddenly, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “I appreciate the gesture.” 

“Of course,” Viggo nods. Then he turns away, busying himself at the bar, clearing away the tumblers and vodka and ashtrays. “I’ll be in touch when we have new information.” 

He listens to Avi’s footsteps as they start to fade away, until he hears the front door click shut behind them. And it’s only then that Viggo stops moving, stops pretending that there’s anything on his mind other than what he’s just done.

He stares at his hands. Hands that had been on Avi’s bare cock just minutes ago, hands that had been streaked with Avi’s come. 

In over twenty years, he’s never done anything quite this stupid. In over twenty years, he’s never once lost control. 

But – no, Viggo realises, as he forces himself to finish tidying up, to move and focus on something else. He knows it’s not what he did that’s causing the cold knot of regret in his stomach. It’s the knowledge that he can never do it again.

***

“Thank you for coming.” Viggo pauses. “To my office,” he adds, and doesn’t miss the way Avi’s lips quirk, albeit very, very briefly. 

They haven’t spoken since the night at the bar and the air is heavy with the elephant in the room, but Viggo will never bring it up and neither, he knows, will Avi. 

“You have news?” Avi asks instead, taking a seat on the other side of the desk.

“We found Popov, yes,” Viggo replies. “And we’re going to talk to him soon – in about twenty minutes, to be exact.”

“Talk?” Avi repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

Viggo smiles thinly. “Talk.” A light on his answering machine starts blinking with an incoming message, but he ignores it for now. “In fact, that’s why I asked you to meet me here.”

Avi frowns. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Viggo leans back in his chair, levelling Avi with a sharp, assessing sort of look. 

“Would you like to join us?”

“While you – ?” Viggo nods and Avi stares. “Is that allowed?”

Viggo laughs a little. “It’s allowed if I say it’s allowed. But I understand if you prefer not to go. What was done to you was –” Viggo stops abruptly. His jaw tightens with anger that has yet to abate, despite – or because of – everything that’s happened since. “No one would think less of you if you –”

“Yes.” Avi’s voice is quiet but firm, a cold, clean calm in his eyes – a cold that conversely makes Viggo feel a little warm. “I’ll join you.”

Viggo glances at the answering machine again. The message came through on a private line; only a handful of people know that number and there’s only one whose call he’s been waiting for.

“Very well,” he says. “Kirill has a team waiting in the garage. Tell them I’ll be there shortly.” 

Viggo waits until Avi has left before he listens to the message. It isn’t very long, and when the recording finishes playing, Viggo allows himself a single, deep breath before he heads downstairs too. A plan is already forming in his mind, and if Viggo’s instincts are right, perhaps taking care of one problem today will end up taking care of two. 

***

_“Доброе утро, Mr Tarasov. This is Dr Orlov, returning your call. I’m sorry we missed each other again, but to answer your question – yes, I did give Mr Hellman painkillers after the incident that night. Oxycodone, to be exact. But he refused point-blank to take them, not even half a pill… said he needed to keep his head clear. He hasn’t taken any since then, either._

_If you have any other questions, do let me know. Otherwise – enjoy the rest of your day, sir.”_

***

“Let me see if I understand this correctly.”

Viggo flexes his fingers as he paces the floor in front of the chair that Popov is tied to, mouth stuffed with a rag and wrists and ankles bound so tightly that even if they do let him go, he’d likely have permanent nerve damage now. Popov’s face is already a swollen mess of blood and bruises and despite the ice he’s used in between each round, Viggo knows his knuckles will be sore for days.

“You honestly, sincerely thought that kidnapping two of my men – one of whom is my Obshchak – in broad daylight, out in the open, would be the ideal way to steal my territory?” Viggo stops in front of him and crouches down, until they’re eye to eye. “Are you insane, Popov, or just fucking stupid?”

The response is distorted by the gag in his mouth but Viggo can guess the gist of it easily enough. He straightens and shakes his head. Blatant idiocy is the most tedious thing – with a son like Iosef, Viggo has to deal with more than his fair share already – and he's not in a patient mood to begin with.

“My tools,” he demands.

Two of Kirill’s team quickly set everything up. They do it in full view of Popov, letting him see each item as it’s laid out on a small table nearby. Scalpels and knives of various sizes, some blades smooth and razor-sharp while others are dull and jagged. Branding irons and blow torches are next, followed by pliers and wires and needles in different gauges. And last of all is a row of tiny bottles, each one filled with substances that can damage the human body from the inside out in the most horrific, irreversible ways. 

Viggo steps up to the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Avi watching him closely. Viggo contemplates the bottles for a moment before carefully pushing them aside. He saves those for only the most deserving; using them on someone like Popov would be a waste.

“I am not an unreasonable man, Popov.” Viggo selects one of the knives and weighs it in his hands. “I could just have one of my men shoot you in the head and then spend the rest of the day doing something far more pleasant. Indeed, had you stopped with the attack at the restaurant, I might have been inclined to grant you such a mercy.” Viggo turns to face him, letting him see the blade. Serrated edge, unsharpened, stained with rust. Popov’s face goes pale. “Unfortunately,” Viggo sighs, “you did _not_ stop, and chose instead to subject my lawyer to things he did not deserve. Things that you, Popov, most certainly do.” 

He takes a step closer and Popov violently shakes his head, eyes widening, yelling so loudly that even the gag in his mouth does little to muffle the volume. 

“A coward as well as an idiot,” Viggo observes. “Why am I not surprised?” 

He’s about to get to work when he stops and turns around. Avi is still watching him, and when Viggo sees the faint, grim smile on his face and the hint of satisfaction in his eyes, he knows with sudden certainty that his instincts had been correct. Two problems can be taken care of today: the Popov problem, and the Avi problem, too. 

Or at least, the public Avi problem. The private one… well. That is something Viggo can deal with later. Right now, there are more pressing matters at hand.

Avi has proven himself loyal already but loyalty alone is not enough for true acceptance – not on Avi’s part, and not on the Bratva’s. Especially so for someone who isn't Russian, and doubly so when there was only one witness to what Avi had done. Viggo can make the announcement, he can order everyone to treat Avi like one of their own, but there is no way his people will truly believe that Avi can be trusted until they have absolute proof – of Avi’s understanding of who they are and what they do, and of who and what Avi is, too.

Viggo offers him the knife. 

Understanding dawns in Avi’s eyes immediately, and he glances down at the rusted blade for a moment before lifting his head, meeting Viggo’s gaze.

He takes the knife.

Avi walks over to Popov slowly, head tilted to the side and contemplating him with a detached sort of interest, that unexpected, cold calm in his eyes again. Popov starts struggling against his bonds as Avi gets closer, to the point where Kirill has to get behind him and hold him still. Viggo comes closer too, intensely curious about what Avi will do. Take just a knuckle to start with, perhaps, or even a whole finger? Be calculated and controlled, or vicious and wild?

But Avi is a lawyer, and Viggo should have expected that he would not behave in that way. Avi starts, instead, with words. 

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” he says, leaning down as Viggo had done earlier, looking Popov in the eye. “I sit behind a desk, or I stand in front of judges and jurors… I type and I read and I research.” Avi smiles a little. “Always thought it was easier that way, you know? Safer, cleaner. More civilised.” 

He lightly taps Popov’s knee with the hilt of the knife and Popov tries to recoil, but Kirill is a solid mass of muscle behind him, holding him in place more effectively than the ropes that bind him to the chair.

“So I want to thank you, Popov,” Avi continues softly, “for teaching me that I was wrong.” He pauses for a moment, searching Popov’s eyes. “You can’t dip so much as a toe into this world and expect to stay clean. If you’re in, you’re _all_ in. And sometimes –” 

Avi shoves the knife into Popov’s thigh. 

“– getting your hands dirty is the only option there is.”

Popov cries out and Avi narrows his eyes. And then – then he starts twisting the blade. Slowly, methodically, watching Popov’s every reaction and silently filing each one away. Looking for the things that cause the most damage, Viggo realises, the things that inflict the most pain. Tears spill over Popov’s cheeks and Avi’s smile widens, and Viggo, God help him, feels heat flood his veins at the sight.

“Not that I’ll be doing this very often,” Avi adds. “Don’t really have the aptitude for it, you know? But there are other things that I do have an aptitude for, things I am _very_ good at. I mean, they may not yield such immediate results, but you know what they say.” Avi grins and pushes the knife in deeper, wiggles it around so Popov’s skin isn’t cut so much as it’s _torn_ open, his flesh slowly ripped apart by the rough edge of the blade. Popov screams and Kirill struggles a little to keep him still. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Avi leans forward and starts whispering something into Popov’s ear. It goes on for at least a couple of minutes and Popov’s eyes get wider and wider as Avi continues to speak, the blood draining from his face until he might as well be a corpse already. When Avi finally pulls back, Popov stares at him with a look of such panic and fear that even Kirill seems taken aback, as does everyone else in the room. 

“I don’t know what my boss here has planned for you,” Avi says, straightening up with some difficulty, the injuries obviously still causing him considerable pain. “But on the off chance he actually lets you live, can I assume that you won’t be bothering us again?” 

Popov nods immediately, vigorously, as though desperate for Avi to believe him. Avi smiles again and pulls the knife out. Slowly, of course, and twisting as he goes.

“Well,” he says, when the knife is finally all the way out. “Maybe you’re not so stupid after all, Popov.”

All eyes are on Avi as he makes his way back to the table, Viggo's no exception. “What did you say to him?” he asks, when Avi is back at his side. 

Avi leans closer and Viggo forces himself to not even glance at Avi’s smiling mouth, or show any reaction whatsoever when the memory of that mouth fellating his fingers flashes through his mind. 

“Names, addresses, secrets, affairs,” Avi murmurs, right into Viggo’s ear. “Of parents and grandparents, husbands and wives… of children, and their children’s friends, and all their bits on the side...” Avi pulls back again and shrugs. “The hands-on stuff isn’t really my forte. But knowledge is power too, right?” 

Viggo shakes his head, impressed and pleased and – yes – more than a little turned on. And judging by the faint wash of pink on Avi’s cheeks, he’s not the only one. Avi eyes the scrapes on Viggo’s knuckles, the blood splattered across the back of his hands. Viggo slowly curls his fingers, forming a tight, strong fist, and watches the flush get deeper. 

“How do you know all this?” he asks. 

“Like I said, I’ve worked with a lot of people.” Avi lifts his head, tearing his eyes away from Viggo's bloody hands. “You know, all a lawyer does is gather information, and then apply it in the most effective way.” He shrugs again and grins. “What can I say? I’m just very good at what I do.”

Viggo doesn’t doubt it. And after today, no one else in the Bratva will, either.

Avi hands the knife back and Viggo accepts it with a nod. He starts walking towards Popov alone but stops and turns around again, gaze flicking from Avi to the tools on the table and back again. Two problems taken care of now, but perhaps – 

Viggo thinks of what happened at the bar three nights ago, of Dr Orlov’s message this morning, of what he’s just witnessed here today. He thinks of the things he’s done to get to the position he’s in now – the foundations he built from nothing, as well as the liabilities he buried and locked away. 

Some desires are a weakness; show weakness and be destroyed. Those are the only choices offered by the life Viggo leads, and for many reasons, he has never even thought to question them. Never.

But perhaps there is a third option, Viggo thinks, and goes back to the table where his tools are laid out. Perhaps he doesn’t have to choose between what’s expected of him and what he wants, if what he wants lives the same kind of life that he does, too. Perhaps this time, Viggo thinks, he can have everything.

Viggo selects a second knife. Then he offers the first one to Avi again. 

“Shall we continue?” he asks. "Together?" 

Avi goes very still. He stares at Viggo’s outstretched hand for a long, long time, the look on his face completely unreadable. And just when Viggo thinks he may have made another mistake, one with consequences far, far worse than anything he’s yet done, Avi reaches out and smiles, just a little, and his fingers close around the handle.

“Gladly,” he replies. 

Viggo holds his gaze for a moment. Avi’s resolve doesn’t waver, however, and eventually, Viggo allows himself to return the smile. Then he turns and makes his way to Popov again, knife in hand and ready to finish the job. 

But this time, Avi is right behind him. 


End file.
